Fickle Game
by glass-of-ice-water
Summary: There was an old saying that Peter had always been strangely attached to: "The first symptom of death is life." It was a morbid and depressing quote, but he found solace in it. He knew everything in the world had to die at some point, and the moment death began to beckon was when life gave birth. There was only one life, and after that, there was only one death. Peter wished.


_**This is a warning**; this story line (particularly this chapter) contains several triggers such as explicit description of rape, grooming, violence, pedophilia, and other triggers. This story is rated MA for a reason, as future chapters will entail other triggers like mental illnesses. If any of this upsets you, I would kindly ask that you click away so you don't experience any negative reactions or painful feelings. Updates will be sporadic. Thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts!_

* * *

He'd like to think that everyone's story begins somewhat troubled. That everyone, at some point in growing up, had a moment where the world just seemed to crash down on them. Where everything seemed so hopeless and dark and all consuming. As if the weight of the world had been passed onto their shoulders and not a single being alive was allowed to relieve that burden.

Peter Parker liked to think that.

It made the bad times easier and the good times better. Because, if at least _one other person _had an inkling of an idea as to what he had gone through in his life, then it made the burden he carried a little lighter. It meant that he wasn't alone in his journey, no matter how rough and hard it got. Even when the storms were bent on knocking him down, and the winds howled and screamed at him, and the floods were determined to drown him in his own grief and sorrow; if at least one other person knew what that felt like….

He could continue on. No matter how many times his legs gave out beneath him or his heart stopped in despair, he could continue on. Just as long as he had that _one other person. _Just as long as he wasn't alone.

That's what kept him going. The thought that he wasn't alone in this world. He had people that surrounded him with love and support. People who protected him and cared for his well-being. As long as those people were there, he'd be okay.

He'd be okay.

* * *

If you were to ask him, and expect an honest answer, Peter Parker would say, "No, I don't really miss them."

He didn't miss his parents, and that was the truth. He wasn't heartless; far from it actually. He could smoothly say that, yes, he did love his parents, but no. He did not miss them. For how could one miss something they don't remember having? They died when he was little, maybe three or four years old, and he'd been distracted enough to have the small memories of his parents erased from his toddler mind.

Vaguely, he could recall his mother's voice. Feminine and high in pitch. Lovingly warm and comforting. He couldn't say he remembered any words though. Just…. Feelings. Emotions he gained from hearing that voice. Hardly anything else though.

That was why he could confidently say that he did not miss his parents. Their absence had no real outwardly affect on him. He had no bad recollections of them, nor any harsh feelings when looking at the pictures framed around he and his aunt's apartment.

Maybe a sense of longing would arise deep within him. A…. yearning, of sorts, to miss them. Wasn't it wrong of a child not to miss their parents? However faint their memories were of them? A son or daughter should constantly have a need for their parents. They had given life to them. It was only natural for a child to want their parents and miss them. Right?

But, Peter did not miss his parents. In plain and simple fact, he did not know or remember them enough to even begin missing them. Sure, there was that lingering thought of "_I wonder what my parents were like?" _every now and again, but it was never a sadness that pulled at his heart when he thought of them. Perhaps this absence of longing was because his aunt and uncle had been quick to fill in any missing holes in Peter's shambled life at the mere age of five.

They had taken the roles of mother and father quickly, even though he still called them Aunt May and Uncle Ben. They were as good as any parent. Probably just as good as what the "originals" were supposed to be. He loved them dearly, and it was without a doubt that Peter could say he missed them when they were working or taking extra shifts to provide for him. He missed them more than he missed his birth parents, and that was okay. Perhaps he had slightly imprinted on his real mother and father, but his aunt and uncle had taken the head position in his heart.

Maybe that was why he was so clingy. Why he missed them so desperately when they were away. He'd already lost one set of parents; one he could hardly recall or say he even yearned for. In the deepest part of his subconscious mind, Peter understood that if his aunt and uncle were to ever leave him _permanently_, it'd be all over for him.

He'd be lost without them.

So, he spent every waking minute he could clinging to his new parents. He'd watch movies with them; even the super old ones when they got tired of watching reruns of Star Wars. He'd help

Aunt May in the kitchen, eating everything she put on his plate even if it tasted like rubber and was horribly burnt. He'd wait patiently for Uncle Ben to return from one of his midnight shifts, making hot chocolate and setting it on the kitchen table for him as he watched the apartment door.

Peter made sure to get good grades so that they wouldn't have to worry about getting a tutor or sending him to a summer school. He made sure each of his teachers knew his name and were aware of how much of a good student he was. He didn't care if the other kids called him a suck-up or a teacher's pet.

They didn't matter. He only cared about his aunt and uncle, and if he had them, he'd be content.

It did get lonely, every now and again, when he was stuck at the school waiting for Aunt May to come and pick him up. People had commented on how quiet he was, saying he was a studious little wallflower. Seen, but not heard. Peter didn't really mind that nickname though. If being a wallflower meant allowing his new parents to not worry if he was falling into the wrong crowd, then so be it.

There were bullies. Peter often did his best to ignore them, most of the time their taunts had little to no affect on him, but occasionally they'd hit a sore spot. They'd poke and prod at a nerve that he just couldn't seem to get rid of, and it frustrated him to no end when they picked on his aunt or uncle. He loved them so much that he'd sometimes break character and throw some of his _own _mean words at the bullies. Everytime he was caught doing that, or one of the kids told on him, Uncle Ben would sit him down and they'd have a talk.

"Peter," he would sigh, arms resting heavily on his lap in his hunched over position. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

It was the same question every time, and yeah, sometimes it rubbed the boy the wrong way. He'd get angry, yell at his uncle and tell him off for not understanding.

"I'm just defending you!" was Peter's argument, always defensive with his actions. "They always say mean things, so why can't I say something back? It's not fair!"

Uncle Ben would look at him with something in his eyes, something that looked vaguely like pity, and he'd sigh again and rub his forehead. Uncle Ben got headaches a lot.

"Peter," he would start again, leaning down to gently take hold of the outraged boy's shoulders. "Life isn't always fair. I'm grateful that you defend me and your aunt, but telling someone to go die isn't the way to do it. I understand it's hard not to speak up, but sometimes staying quiet and holding your head up high is the best way to defend someone. Actions speak louder than words."

After that, the conversation would either taper of into discussion of punishment for his behavior, or they would continue the argument. It wasn't pleasant when they argued; voices being raised, flailing gestures, hurtful words. Aunt May tried to stay out of it, knowing she'd have to pick a side if she ever intervened, but when the neighbors started to complain, she knew something had to be done. Things just couldn't go on the way they had been, and it'd only been a year and a half since Peter had become a part of their lives.

Logically, Ben and May knew Peter was dishing out his underlying anger and sadness. Sure, he hadn't been with his parents long, but they'd still been his parents. He'd still loved them, and to be displaced so quickly, well, that was bound to lead to some repercussions.

May decided the best way to help her nephew cope was to smother him with their love. The boy loved them, she knew that, but she felt the need to make sure he knew how much they loved him back. Family dinners became a frequent thing, both May and Ben deciding to stick with their day shifts, even though it meant a little less money being dropped off to the bank. Movie nights became tradition instead of the every now and then fling. Days going to the park or the zoo were common, and the occasional family talk happened as well.

Over all, it worked wonders. Peter became one of the most kind-hearted boys anyone had ever met, his adorable charm and sharp intellect making him a joy to converse with. Fights between Ben and Peter became non-existent, any problem that would arise quickly being stomped out with their calm and explanatory conversations. Things were looking up in their quaint household, and the trio couldn't be happier.

There was just one problem though. Peter was still being bullied.

He'd never say a word about it, but he'd come home from school with an absolutely tired looking gaze and stay quiet for the rest of the afternoon. May tried, and you better believe she _tried, _to get Peter to open up and say who exactly was bullying him, but their parenting styles had worked too well. Peter refused, brushing it off and saying it didn't bother him.

Once, when he was moving onto middle school and entering the sixth grade, May had brought up the topic again, offering for him to change schools if it got bad.

"No, I'm okay." was his simple reply, and Ben and May chose to accept his words. They'd tried every trick in the book they could, from talking to the boy when he was sleepy, to even following him to school (albeit secretly). Whomever was bullying Peter was smart though, and even the teachers never caught wind of any sort of harassment.

Peter kept his head held high, taking his uncle's advice to heart. He became the nerdy, yet sweet, wall-flower every adult adored. Most of the other children didn't mind him, but it was hard to become friends with the boy who could easily be a year ahead of the curriculum. He didn't say anything to prove it, but, likewise, he never denied it. Everyone just knew the boy was too smart to stay in his designated age group, and that made it hard to connect with him.

That worried his surrogate parents. They wanted Peter to make friends, didn't want him to be lonelier than he already was. It was hard trying to maintain a loving and healthy relationship with the now 12 year old. They didn't want to smother him, but knew he had no one else to receive the affection he craved for.

So, they signed him up for an after-school program for kids just like Peter.

It was hosted at the local library every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. It wasn't a big program, maybe ten or more kids attending each session, but the idea behind was to help the kids gain confidence by pairing each one with an older kid; often times high schoolers looking for service hours. May had looked into it, wanting to make absolutely certain that this would be good for Peter, and after talking to a few other parents that had signed up their kids with it, she decided to enroll Peter. The good thing about the program was that it didn't cost anything except a library card fee, and was essentially free babysitting for an hour or two.

Peter hadn't been so willing to go at first, still struggling with the thought of leaving his aunt and uncle's side for more than he necessarily had to, but relented nonetheless when he saw how much Aunt May wanted him to go. The first time he went was on a Thursday, and May had gone with him to make sure everything would go smoothly. They were met with a nice older woman named , who said she'd been running the program for about three years and had seen great results in the younger kiddies.

"Even the teens that come here to volunteer leave happier," had said, the smile on her face kind and proud.

After the introductions had been made, May had left, kissing Peter on the head and telling him to behave. That left him with , who looked around trying to find a "reading buddy" (as she called them) for the boy. She eventually found one, reprimanding him for not coming up to her when he got to the library.

"Steven, put that magazine away and come meet your new reading buddy," she'd asked sweetly, though the agitated way she folded her arms gave way to her frustration.

The teenager came over hurriedly, looking properly abashed at being caught lazing around. He was tall, bleach blonde hair contrasting against his tannish skin.

"Sorry," he apologized, stooping his head down a bit, before a sly grin emerged. "Just couldn't seem to stop reading. After all, that is what we're here for, right?"

The older woman simply rolled her eyes, beckoning Peter to come forth from behind her. "Peter, this is Steven. He'll be your study buddy for now, but it you don't like him," she gave a sharp glance at the teenager in question, "We can pair you up with someone else, okay?"

Peter nodded, waving a hand at the blonde boy before saying bye to the woman as she walked off. Once again, he was left with another stranger and expected to do something. Read, talk, or whatever that came up. Thankfully, Steven started the conversation.

"So, Peter, right? You gotta last name to go with that?"

"Parker," he answered quietly, struggling to maintain eye contact. Yeah, he was eleven, but he still had a fair bit of social anxiety. "Peter Parker."

"Well, _Peter Parker, _I'm Steven Westcott. Most people call me Skip, though. You like to read?"

And that's where it started. The first day, nothing much happened, but Skip had managed to get past Peter's underlying anxiety and gotten him to open up a bit. They talked, mostly, and read a little bit, Skip being impressed by Peter's choice of books.

"Science? Chemistry? Dude, what's with all this nerdiness pooling out of you?" Skip laughed, enjoying the embarrassment the smaller boy had.

"I like chemistry," Peter supplied, voice meek in preparation for the teasing. "I think it's cool…."

Skip laughed again, reaching out a hand to quickly ruffle Peter's hair. "Whatever floats your boat, Einstein."

An hour passed quickly, Peter having warmed up after seeing that his reading buddy wouldn't judge him for his interests. It was nice, in a way, to actually talk about what he likes without being ridiculed because it was "nerdy". It was really nice actually.

When the hour was over, and May had come back to pick him up, she smiled when she saw the small grin that had wormed its way onto her nephew's face as he was saying goodbye.

"How was it?" she asked, throwing an arm around the small boy's shoulders. "Did you have fun?"

Peter nodded, the smile still keeping its place. "Yeah- the boy I was with, his name's Steven, but he told me to just call him Skip."

"Was Skip nice?"

Peter paused for a second, eyes wandering as they exited the quiet building. May feared the worst for a moment, scared that her nephew had met another person out to get him for his smarts. Relief flooded through her though as his smile widened, excitement oozing out of his small frame.

"Yeah! He didn't make fun of me for liking chemistry; he even called me Einstein because he thought I was really smart."

May chuckled a bit at that, Peter's childlike happiness bringing joy to her heart. "Would you like to keep going to the program then?"

An excited nod of the head was all May needed as they hailed a cab and went home. Later, when Ben had come home and Peter had gone to bed, May lay awake with her husband, the afternoon's glee-fullness still keeping her on Cloud 9.

"You should've seen him, Ben," May rambled, the smile on her face contagious as her husband listened. "He was so excited to have made a friend, and this boy, Skip I think, was so kind to Peter. They really hit it off, and Peter said he's ready for Monday to come so he can go back. I know it's only been a day, but I'm already seeing so much improvement! It's amazing ..."

Ben watched his wife talk, a fond smile overtaking his features as she continued to converse. He truly was happy for both of them; Peter, for making a friend, and May, for finally allowing herself to de-stress from the social problems of their dear nephew.

It was a good day.

* * *

They went back the next week, Skip greeting them this time. May introduced herself, silently loving the older boy's manners as he called her " " and "ma'am". New York was not exactly the most popular place for manners after all, especially for teenagers. When she left, she glanced back just in time to see Skip reach up to ruffle Peter's unruly hair. Her heart swelled at the familiar action, Ben having done that to the boy since he'd had a full head of hair.

Her opinion of the teen only increased when she came back for pick up, Peter still engrossed in conversation over some sciency looking book as Skip listened intently, his eyes never straying from her nephew's animated face. It was truly relieving to see it all; Peter finally had a friend. He was happier.

The routine went on for a month, three times every week. Peter would still be talking to Skip, their laughter together music to May's ears, and when they'd leave, Skip would follow them to the door, holding out a hand for a series of high fives May could never keep track of.

When she had asked what they were doing, Peter had enthusiastically informed her it was their "secret best friend" handshake. May could've sworn she almost cried when he said that, the sheer gratitude for Skip never ceasing to amaze her. He had done wonders for Peter's confidence; he was speaking up more, talking more in class, and even making acquaintance ships with a few of his classmates. After an entire month of Peter going on and on about his new best friend, Ben had decided it was finally time for him to meet Skip. They invited him over for dinner, and after a few miscommunications (Peter had thought they were going over to Skip's house), they finally settled on a date to meet up. May had told Skip he could invite his parents, but he was the only one to show up at the small diner they had agreed to.

"Yeah, sorry about that. My mom has a night shift at her work tonight, and she couldn't reschedule in time. My dad…. Well, he's kind of out of the picture right now," Skip chuckled, scratching the back of his head in what looked like embarrassment.

May immediately sympathized, her parents themselves never having the best relationship. "Oh, don't worry about it, hon. We're just glad to have you here. This is my husband, Ben. Ben, this is Steven."

"Call me Skip, sir," the teen said, holding out a hand for a handshake. "It's nice to meet you."

Taking the offered hand, Ben shook it firmly, studying his nephew's friend's face for a moment before a grin broke out. "Likewise, Skippy."

Skip laughed good-naturedly, and the evening proceeded without a hitch. Peter dominated most of the conversations, talking to and at everyone at the small table, and Ben observed, for the first time, how attentive Skip really was. His eyes never strayed in disinterest, and he was actually paying attention to the conversation, butting in with his own words every now and again. When the meal was over, May shooed away Skip's offer to pay for his own meal and insisted they would take care of it. Afterwards, they parted ways, the secret handshake ensuing, and Ben laughed as he saw firsthand how crazy and seemingly non-patterned it was.

"I gotta say, Pete," Ben hummed as they made their way home. "You've got a good friend right there."

"I know," Peter happily agreed, skipping into the apartment. "He's the best!"

* * *

"Are you sure it's okay? I don't want you staying here longer than necessary, and I'm sure you'll want to go home afterwards."

Skip waved the paranoid aunt off, "Don't worry. Peter is my friend, I'd be happy to take care of him for awhile. It's honestly no trouble, really."

Another month had passed since the dinner that sealed the friendship between the Parkers and Skip Westcott. Peter still went to the program every week, though it didn't really seem like he needed it any longer. He'd grown confident enough to have made a friend at his school, one that was his own age, and they were hitting off pretty well. That being said, they were still only "school friends". Ned, the boy Peter had befriended, had yet to reach the level of friendship Peter held Skip at.

The amount of love and trust Ben and May Parker had given Skip was more than they'd given to anyone else before, and it was because of that that May decided it would be okay to leave Peter for a few extra hours at the library while she filled in for a shift at the hospital. That didn't mean she wasn't hesitant at dumping her nephew with a teenager for awhile. Teens got bored pretty easily, and though her doubt was small, she still didn't want to risk Skip getting tired of Peter and snapping at him.

She knew Peter wouldn't be able to handle that kind of rejection.

"Alright then," she agreed somewhat cautiously. "Give me a call if anything happens; I've left my number at the front desk, and the lady there will let you use her phone." Leaning down to give Peter one last hug, she whispered, "Be good for Skip, alright?"

Peter nodded huffily, "I'm twelve now, Aunt May! I'm not a little kid anymore."

"We'll see about that," Skip chuckled, resting a hand on the boy's head. "Don't worry. He'll be fine; I'll make sure of it."

May thanked the teen again, before rushing out the library doors, signaling a cab before climbing in. They watched her leave, Skip's hand never leaving Peter's mess of curls.

"Alright then," Skip said, a mischievous smile adorning his face. "Now that she's gone, what do you wanna do?"

The afternoon went on eventfully, the first hour or so going towards the usual reading. But, after left and most of the program kids had gone home, Skip decided that they could let loose now that the library was practically empty. A game of "quiet tag" ensued, Peter being the tagger. He was laughing the whole time, the older boy taunting him with phrases of "_You're too slow!" _and "_Come on, Einstein! You gotta be quicker than that!" _until both were out of breath and seated in the lounge chairs that were sectioned off in the kiddie area.

Everything was good until Peter felt his chest begin to tighten.

_Oh not now, _he thought mournfully. He hated asthma attacks and he hated his inhaler with a burning passion. The medicine tasted like old shoes, and no, he's never tried to eat a shoe but that's how Peter imagined it tasted. He just hated his lungs in general, physical exertion almost always leaving him wheezing and gasping for air.

Peter had really hoped Skip would never have to see him have an attack. Skip was just so cool, and if he saw Peter like this…. weak and coughing like mad, he'd probably never want to hang out with him again. It's why a lot of kids didn't like him; he was never any fun to play with.

"Hey, Einstein," the teen called. "You doing alright? You look a little," he waved his fingers in front of his face in a circular motion, "Pale. Do you need water or something?"

Peter shook his head, waving off Skip's concern. "No, I'm good. Just tired from running around."

He immediately regretted speaking as his lungs seized, the pressure inside his chest increasing. Peter was trying to take in deep breaths through his nose, but the little amount of oxygen he was getting was making his head feel fuzzy. Black spots began to dot his vision, and Peter swallowed his pride as he attempted to take a big gulp of air through his mouth.

No such luck.

By then, he was openly trying to get some oxygen in. Being cool be damned; he was just trying to survive at this point.

"Woah!" Skip shouted in alarm. "Einstein, what's the matter with you? Are you choking? What's going on?"

Peter pointed to his bag, face starting to turn bright red, and frantically tried to get words out of his shriveled lungs. "My-My inhaler!" he wheezed, his tongue feeling as if it had swelled up to three times its normal size. "I-I need…."

He couldn't get out any more words than that, hands frantically reaching for the small bag he always carried with him. His fingers were fumbling with the zippers and he could feel the tears burning in the back of his eyes, shame and horror taking over him with each passing second. This wasn't even the worst asthma attack he'd ever had; it was just the mere fact that Skip was there and looking at him with wide eyes and this _expression _on his face and he just wouldn't look away and-

Finally, Peter managed to rip open the small pocket, practically shoving his inhaler into his mouth as he tried his best to take a deep breath of the medicine. He kept the small bottle in his mouth for a few moments, not wanting to take the chance of missing any of the mist that let him breathe. After another ten seconds or so, Peter felt his lungs expand and the constricting feeling dissipate, the gravity of what had just happened washing over him instead.

He felt his face heat up, glancing carefully up at the older boy, who had yet to look away or offer help. Peter couldn't really blame him though; people always stared when he had attacks.

"Skip?" he called, taking turns looking between the inhaler he clutched so tightly and the soft carpet of the floor. "Um, is-is everything okay? Skip?"

Skip didn't respond, his eyes continuing to widen as he took in the frail looking boy that sat across from him. His curls were a mess, eyes half lidded, glasses falling askew, and his breathing was still harsh, coming out it muted gasps. Peter's face was flushed, head bowed, and he looked smaller than ever. The baggy shirt he wore was starting to slide off one of his shoulders, pale flesh poking out, chest heaving with each intake of oxygen, lips parted slightly….

God, his pants were starting to feel tight all of a sudden.

"I-I'll be right back, Einstein!" Skip said suddenly, hunching over a bit as he quickly turned away from the smaller boy. "Bathroom!"

He left Peter sitting there, watching in humiliation as Skip retreated into the far corners of the library. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," the boy muttered to himself, a few tears leaking out.

Did his asthma really freak Skip out that much? Was Peter really that weird to look at? Would Skip even want to be his friend anymore? He couldn't lose Skip- he was Peter's only true friend after all, and it made his heart ache thinking about never talking to the teen ever again. Skip made him feel so happy, and he knew Uncle Ben and Aunt May were so relieved he finally had someone other than them to bother. He'd been "improving", as May said. Now, it felt like all of that had been washed away.

Peter felt like he would do anything to make it up to Skip. To make him stay and be his friend.

Looking back on it now, years later, Peter knew this was where everything started to spiral out of control.

* * *

A week had passed since the "incident". May had noticed a small shift in her nephew, his anxiety seeming to have taken a leap in the wrong direction. When she asked about his sudden shift in demeanor, Peter just shook his head, muttering something about not feeling good. At first, May had been worried something had happened between Skip and Peter. They still hung out every week, and Peter always came back smiling, but something…. Something just didn't seem right.

Eventually, as time passed by and Peter's mood seemed to lift a bit, she let it go. Peter was almost a teenager himself, albeit a tween at the moment, but he tended to act like a nine year old most days. Not to say he was immature, but just that his general attitude and demeanor represented someone of that age. Bright, bubbly, and innocent.

Summer eventually came, and with it the startling realization that Peter would be alone. School served as a full seven hours of essentially free babysitting, and the after-school program allowed another hour or so. Now, with both options no longer available, May and Ben began to worry. Summer camps weren't an option; almost all of them involved some sort of physical activity and each day spent in one of those camps was twenty dollars or more, not including lunch or snacks. In plain and simple fact, summer camp just wasn't in their budget.

When discussing options one night, as both adults made sure Peter was always made aware of decisions that would directly impact him, their nephew claimed he would be fine spending the day by himself in the apartment.

"I'm not ten anymore," he huffed, attempting to put on a proud face as a show of his maturity. "I can take care of myself. I know how to use the stove and microwave, and I can make sandwiches."

"Baby, we know you can do all of those things. And it's not that we don't trust you to take care of yourself. It's just that we worry something might happen that you won't be able to control, and we won't be there to help you. What if you get hurt, or the apartment catches fire? Ben and I won't be able to reach you in time to help if anything goes wrong."

Peter raised an eyebrow at his aunt's reasoning. "But that's why we have a home phone. I can call you or 911 if there's an emergency. Or I can get the neighbors to ask for help." he shrugged his shoulders up and down, nodding to himself at his use of logic. "Simple."

Ben chuckled at that, gently patting his nephew's mess of curls. "Yeah, those are options, but your aunt and I would just feel a lot better if we had someone watching you and making sure you stay out of trouble." he winked at the boy, earning a small, but playful, glare. "We don't want another 'accident' of all the Star Wars movies being rented again."

Peter hummed in thought, tapping his chin in ponderment. "What about Skip?"

"What about him, Pete?"

"Well, maybe he could come over here, and well, watch me. Or, I could go over to his home and he could watch me there."

Ben glanced at May to get her opinion, but he got his answer as he watched her face light up. "That's a great idea! We'll have to ask his mother first though, and see if he has time to do it. He won't have to do it everyday since I'm sure Ben and I can take a couple days off, but I wouldn't mind if he came over here to watch you. Oh, this'll is great! It'll be like a play-date for you two!"

And, just a few days later, after multiple phone calls and confirmations, Skip came over to officially babysit Peter for the first time. Though, initially, there was no payment involved, May had felt guilt wash over her at what was essentially "child labor" and convinced Skip to accept five dollars every time he came over. It wasn't much, and May wished she could've given more, but Skip and his mother were adamant that he would not be given any more.

"Why would you pay me to hang out with a friend all day? I mean, it's real nice of you to offer, but it almost seems unfair," Skip laughed.

So, that's how the first week went; Skip would arrive every other day at nine o'clock on the dot, and stay with Peter until either his aunt or uncle would return from their shift, which usually ended somewhere around six or seven. Some days felt long, others too short, but both had enormous fun. The two friends did all sorts of things, including small bursts of tag where Skip always had to use the bathroom immediately after. It was weird, but Peter didn't question it. Everyone had their weird quirks and he couldn't exactly help it when he had to go. Maybe his bladder was unusually small after all.

Then, one day, Skip came over with a bag slung over his shoulder. Peter didn't ask about it at first, instead excited to tell his friend about the new Star Wars themed board game he had gotten. He listened, as always, to Peter's ramblings, though his demeanor seemed a little off. He kept licking his lips, glancing over to the bag he had brought over earlier, and his eyes strayed everywhere, locking with Peter's gaze once in awhile.

When they had gotten close to the end, Skip suddenly burst out, "Einstein! Oh, wow, I totally forgot! I got you something!"

Giddiness reaching a new high, Peter leaned in as Skip rummaged through the bag he'd brought. "It's, uh, kind of like a gift of sorts," Skip mumbled, licking his lips as his hand dug deeper. "You know, a friendship gift. Only best friends give each other gifts, and I thought you'd really like this since its got Star Wars and stuff on it."

Finally, he pulled out a plastic grocery bag, the "gift" inside it hidden. "I know most kids don't really like clothes, but you know…." he trailed off, offering the bag to Peter eagerly. "I want you to try it on! See if it fits and all."

Quirking an eyebrow, the boy accepted the bag, beginning to untie the loops at the top before Skip held out a hand to stop him. "You can look at them when you get to the bathroom to, uh, try it on."

"Alright," Peter acquiesced, shrugging his shoulders. He couldn't contain his smile though as he hurried to the small bathroom. Skip had gotten him a gift! A best friend gift! The pure joy that erupted from his chest left him a bit stunned as he shut the door, immediately untying the small knot that held the bag closed.

Looking inside, Peter saw that it was indeed clothing. There were three pieces in there; shorts, a t-shirt, and….

"Skip?" the boy called, holding up the article of clothing in confusion. "I opened it and I saw there was a shirt and some shorts, but I don't know what this other…. Thing is."

He heard fumbling as Skip scrambled to his feet, footsteps rounding the corner as he came to the door. "O-Oh!" he said, his voice a bit too loud as he talked through the bathroom door. "Sorry if it's a little weird, but it's underwear. I-I totally understand if you don't want it- I can't return it to the store but I get it if you don't want them…." he trailed off, sounding sad, and Peter felt guilt crawl through him.

"No, no!" Peter reassured. "It's fine! I just wasn't sure what it was for a second."

"Okay," the teen responded, voice going low as he started walking away. "Hurry up and try them on- I wanna see how they fit."

Determination flaring up within him, Peter shed his own clothing to begin the tedious process of trying on the new. The underwear Skip had gotten him was a bit weird, the front being held up by small strings. It wasn't like any sort of underwear Peter had ever seen before, and it wedged a bit uncomfortably into his bottom, but he ignored it. The shorts were…. Short. They seemed to ride up a little too high, showing off his pale legs and the shirt that came with it showed a part of his stomach. The outfit, to Peter, was obviously too small but the fabric was pretty nice, silky in texture. Looking in the mirror, he felt exposed, never having worn anything this revealing in a long time. The last time he'd even come close to looking this _naked _was when his aunt had taken him to the swimming pool. Even then, his swim shorts were a little longer than the ones he wore now.

"You done yet, Einstein?" Skip called out, a note of impatience creeping in.

"Y-Yeah," Peter stammered out. "But I think the clothes you got are too small for me."

"Let me see," Skip practically demanded. "They're supposed to be a little small. It was the only size I could find, and I can't return them anyway."

Swallowing his nervousness, Peter stepped out of the bathroom only to find Skip leaning against the opposite wall, eyes already roaming over his small figure. Peter felt uncomfortable being stared at like that, and tried not to fidget as the teen studied him.

Skip smiled, his grin taking on a hungry look, as he came over and rubbed the boy's head. "It looks great, Einstein! Fits perfectly on you!"

"I-I don't know…. Are they pajamas? They just feel really small."

"Don't worry about it- they aren't pjs. They're actually a best friend outfit! You only wear these clothes when we're together, but never around anyone else. It's supposed to be a secret too; only really good friends wear stuff like this."

"R-Really?"

"You've never had a friend before, have you?" Skip questioned, already knowing the answer. "Just trust me, Einstein. I'm your best friend; I know what to do."

Peter nodded, accepting Skip's words. Who was he to question what best friends were supposed to do? Skip had probably had loads of friends before; Peter had never had any himself.

He soon learned that he was to put on the outfit every time Skip came over. The older teen didn't have an outfit like that, saying only the really cool people got to wear it and Peter was super cool. The boy certainly didn't feel cool though, especially with all the extra physical contact that was being given. Maybe Skip had always rubbed the younger boy's knees and Peter had never noticed it underneath his jeans, but it soon became apparent how often it was done.

Peter never once complained though. In a way, Peter still felt bad over what had happened in the library with his asthma attack. Skip had…. Changed, for lack of a better word, ever since that had happened. Peter wasn't exactly sure what changed, but he could just sort of sense it.

Skip always reminded Peter to hide away his "special outfit" before his aunt and uncle came home, stuffing it in the far corners of his closet. It was supposed to remain a secret from them, otherwise it would spoil the whole "secret best friend" thing, and Peter was okay with them not knowing. Strangely, he felt almost _ashamed _when he wore the clothes Skip had gifted him. They were comfy and they felt nice, but when he wore them, something just felt inherently wrong about it.

He didn't feel good wearing them.

Another week or so passed, nothing new happening and Peter still being "forced" to wear the ridiculous silky clothes. They still did all the normal things they used to do; playing tag, finding new games to play (Skip's new favorite was Twister), and making lunch for the afternoon. They'd started hugging, something Peter didn't find as comforting as when his aunt and uncle would do it, and Skip would always compliment him on how nice his hair smelled.

"What kind of shampoo do you use and where can I buy it, Einstein?" he would joke, sometimes taking an exaggerated whiff of Peter's locks.

Peter never knew how to respond, considering he couldn't tell if his friend was ever serious or not. He always laughed when Skip laughed, because then he knew it was a joke. Then he knew he wasn't supposed to take it with a straight face. So, when Skip would brush up against his backside rather forcefully and laugh, Peter knew to laugh too.

They laughed a lot together.

A lot.

May called Skip's mother one day, asking if it would be alright if he could stay a little while longer than usual. Uncle Ben and Aunt May both had an afternoon and night shift coming up, and even though Skip would be with Peter the majority of the day, they didn't want to leave him alone at night. They were paranoid, but they trusted Skip with all their heart to take care of their nephew for a few extra hours.

They saw Skip as their second "son". He was loved by the small Parker family. Treasured.

had readily agreed, saying she didn't mind Skip saying over a few extra hours as long as he got home before midnight. May worried about the boy taking a taxi or the subway so late, but assured her he'd be fine.

So, that led to what the two were doing now; curled up on the small couch, sharing a blanket, and watching a rerun of some silly cartoon Peter couldn't remember the name of.

He felt a weight settle on his thigh, knowing it was most likely Skip's hand, and didn't bother shifting away. Skip always seemed sad when he did that. It began to bother him though as the warmth of the teens palm didn't go away, fingers starting to trace small circles around the sensitive flesh. Skip's rough fingers seemed to do a dance as they trailed up and down his leg, reaching higher and higher until he felt the smooth fabric of his shorts begin to shift.

Peter moved then, just a little bit, away from the touch and he saw Skip glance at him.

"What're you doing, Einstein?" he asked, his fingers reaching for the missing warmth.

"Um, uh, nothing. Sorry, Skip."

"It's okay," the teen murmured, moving even closer to the boy underneath the blanket. "I've been meaning to talk to you for some time."

"What do you mean? We talk all the time."

"Yeah, well, usually it's about Star Wars or something nerdy," he said off-handedly, fingers slowing their movement as his entire hand came to rest on Peter's small thigh. "I want to talk about something else."

"W-What do you wanna talk about?"

Skip released his hold of Peter then, standing up to get the small bag he always carried around with him. He carried it back over to the couch, turning off the TV, before plopping the bag onto the small coffee table in front of it. Skip reached in, pulling out a plastic bag, and for a moment Peter feared it was another "gift" he'd gotten for him. However, Skip just placed it on the table beside the other bag and turned to face the younger boy, face solemn but eyes lit with a raging fire burning behind them.

"Do you know what love is, Einstein?"

The question caught the boy off-guard, the conversation veering in a very different direction than what he'd had in mind. "Yeah," Peter answered slowly. "It's…. A feeling."

"What kind of feeling?"

"Um, a very warm feeling? When someone likes something a lot?"

Skip snapped his fingers, a smile growing on his face as he stared deep into Peter's spectacles. "Exactly. Love is when someone likes someone else a lot. That's why I love you, Einstein. I like you a lot."

Peter felt his cheeks heat up. How could Skip say something like that so casually? Aunt May always said love was a very special thing, and for Skip to just _throw _the word out like it's nothing….

"Do you love me?" Skip asked, leaning in closer. "I love you. Do you love me?"

"I-I…." Peter stuttered. He loved his aunt and uncle. He was pretty sure he loved his parents too. Was that the kind of love Skip was talking about? "I like you a lot."

Skip stared at him, eyes intense, the fire behind it never quelling. "Okay," he said, hands wringing together slowly. "Do you want to come over to my apartment tomorrow?"

The conversation was giving Peter whiplash, the directions it was taking leaving his head spinning. "S-Sure- that'd be nice."

"Alright."

Aunt May and Skip's mother were called, and plans were made and approved. Just. Like. That.

* * *

Peter wished he had never agreed to go over to Skip's home. The apartment complex he lived in was dirty and run-down, the alleyways beside it full of trash. Stepping through the security gate sent chills up his spine, a couple women standing on the street corner giving him and Skip weird looks. The elevator was broken and they had to walk up three flights of stairs before reaching a stained and scratched up door.

The apartment Skip lived in didn't smell nice. It gave off a scent of smoke and cigarettes, a couple beer bottles strewn around the living room. Skip didn't bother offering anything to Peter though, instead leading him over to the bathroom.

"Go change. When you're done, come to my room. It's on the right."

There was something demanding in his voice, something sounding almost angry, and Peter was quick to comply. It bothered him that the teen hadn't even addressed him by name yet, not even calling him Einstein. Was he nervous about something? The clothes Skip had gotten him about a week and a half ago were dirty and covered in sweat. They'd lost their silky texture and the size seemed to have only gotten smaller.

Peter didn't like his best friend outfit anymore.

Hurrying to the room he'd been told was the teen's bedroom, Peter peered in to find Skip hunched over, flipping through a magazine rapidly. His face lit up as he spotted Peter by the doorway, beckoning him in. "Hey, Einstein, I wanna show you something."

The boy came over, sitting cautiously on the bed, as Skip folded the magazine back to the cover. On the front were two men kissing, and they were….

"Do you know what they're doing, Einstein?" Skip asked, his breath hot against Peter's ear.

The boy shook his head, something inside of him cringing away at what he was looking at.

"Did you know that they're friends?"

"Friends?"

"Yeah. This is a best friend magazine; I have a lot of them. This is what best friends do when they love each other."

"What-What are they doing?"

Skip chuckled, tossing the magazine onto the floor as he turned to grab Peter's face and turn it towards him. "They're showing each other how much they love each other. That's what best friends do." He leaned in further, Peter wanting to flinch away from Skip's harsh hold. His breath smelled foul, the grin plastered on his face sinister and hungry. Hungry for what? "Let's do what they're doing. Let's love each other, Einstein."

That had Peter recoiling, scooting backwards so his back rested against the smooth wall. "I-I don't think I want to-to do that, Skip."

"Come on, Einstein. It'll be fun; it's like another game. We _always _do what you want to do. Be a good guest and go along with it." Skip was crawling over to Peter now, movements slow and deliberate.

"But-But I…."

Skip hushed him though, pausing to rest on his knees in front of the trembling boy. "You know, Einstein," he mumbled, hands reaching for his zipper as he tugged it down. "I've always thought you were so pretty. So small and perfect and _beautiful._ That day in the library, when you had that little asthma attack, I couldn't keep my eyes off of you." Skip was shrugging off his pants now, the bulge in his underwear noticeable. "Your hair was a mess, your face was flushed, and you were breathing so heavily…. And when you said my name, god I almost couldn't control myself."

The underwear was gone, and Peter was squeezing his eyes shut as he whimpered. He didn't want this. He didn't want to see Skip naked or show how much he "loved" Skip or anything like that. "I want to go ho-home, Skip. Please, I want to go-go home."

Skip froze then, fingers tucked into the waistband of Peter's shorts. "What?" he growled, getting up to stand in front of the boy. "No. You can't. You're not allowed to."

"Please, Skip, I-"

"No!" Skip roared, running over to the door as he slammed it shut, clicking the latch in place. They were locked in now. "That's not fair, Einstein. We always do what you want to do at your apartment. It's my turn. I _love _you. Say it back."

"Sk-Skip, plea-"

"_Say it back! Say you love me too!"_

Peter just shook his head and sobbed though, burying his face in his hands. The teen sighed, going back over to the edge of the bed. He sat down, rubbing his face tiredly as he listened to the boy cry. He held out an arm, an open invitation for a hug, and even though Peter was scared and didn't know what was going on, he hesitantly accepted it. This was Skip after all. He'd never hurt Peter on purpose. They were best friends and-

There were hands in his pants. They were pulling down the shorts and it happened so fast Peter wasn't even sure what was going on until his face was being forced into the mattress. The flimsy shirt he wore was being torn off so violently it ripped at the seams, and Peter was left bare except for the two thin strings that left him with the small amount of dignity he possessed.

"It'll be over soon," Skip breathed, something hard pressing into the smaller boy's thigh. "When we're done, we can do what you want to. Right now, it's my turn though. It's my turn."

Something cold and gooey was being spread onto Peter's bottom, the teen's invading fingers going _everywhere _as they lathered on more and more of the stuff. All the while, Peter stayed silent, paralyzed with fear.

What was happening?_  
_Peter held in a shriek as he felt a finger slide into him, followed soon by another. The fingers…. They were _moving inside of him. _Instantly, the boy tried to move away, scrambling onto his knees as he fought to get upright. The teen above him only held him down though, a hand grabbing a fistful of his hair as he yanked Peter's neck back.

"Just relax," Skip cooed, fingers _still moving. _"Relax and enjoy it, Einstein. I promise it'll feel good soon; just relax. We haven't even gotten to the best part yet."

It was then that Peter decided now would be a good time to scream, opening his mouth wide as he sucked in a long breath to prepare for what surely would be the loudest and most desperate plea he would ever make in his entire life. It was like a bad dream though. One of those nightmares where you knew you were supposed to do something, _anything, _to get away from the danger. Where you were supposed to run away from the demon that chased you. Where you were supposed to close your eyes and not look at the beckoning of death's claw. Where you were supposed to _scream _and call out for help.

But couldn't.

A weak choking noise was all that escaped. All that was produced from the lungful of air he'd sucked in. Not a scream. Not a cry for help. Just a breathy wheeze. A whisper. Nothing.

There were three now. He could feel them; individual, separate, singular. Skip had set a rhythm, slowing and going deeper. Faster and harder and _painful. _Then slow again. The movement would pause sometimes, more of that cold goo entering him and being slathered and just going everywhere. Then they left all together, and for a hopeful moment, Peter wished with all his heart it was over. That they were done playing this new game and that Peter could go change into his regular clothes and they would play monopoly and just do _something else. _

And then he felt something hard, something warm, poke him. And then that poke turned into a prod. A push. A shove.

And then it went it.

A moan met Peter's harsh cry of pain, and the boy gripped the sheets tightly, tears pouring out from his eyes. It stunned Peter how easily Skip slid in when it was so agonizing. When all Peter could feel was pain and fire erupting from within him as Skip moved. The hand that had been gripping his hair so tightly had relocated, two hands instead latching onto his shaking shoulders, pushing the boy's body closer around-

"Fuck," the teen groaned, labored breaths spilling onto Peter's back. "You're so _tight- _Fuck, Einstein! Moan for me; I wanna hear your love for me. Come on, Einstein, fuck!"

The boy said nothing though, focusing instead on trying not to bite through his tongue at the anguish that rattled his poor body. Skip was gripping his shoulders so tightly it felt like his hands were made of iron, the hot breaths that littered his back feeling like ashes, the agony centered around his lower half making him want to vomit.

Still no scream left him.

Peter didn't know how much time had passed as his body rocked violently on the bed. He had long since given up pleading inside his head for it to be over. For Skip to be done with this game. The mattress was squeaky, each forceful thrust eliciting a loud squeal from the old springs. The fistful of blanket he'd grabbed earlier was loose in his grip, the fabric offering no comfort and no escape. At some point, Skip had flipped him over so his face now turned towards the ceiling, the position he was in more painful than the last. His legs were held up in the air, bending so far back that they almost touched Peter's chest, and perhaps he would've felt the sting of his inflexible muscles had it not been for the firey pain that still burned through him. That would not let up.

That he knew would never go away.

Skip was practically resting on the boy now, hips working overtime as he sought a pathway to his climax. His eyes were closed, concentrating so hard in an effort to release himself, moaning over and over into Peter's ears.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," was all he said, gripping the boy's forearms as he became more aggressive. He could feel it. He was almost there. God, Peter smelled so good and he was so warm and still so _tight- _

A lengthy groan escaped him, his body collapsing onto the limp boy that laid there. Neither said a word as the teen lay there panting, his sweat trickling onto the boy beneath him. Maybe there were tears, but if you looked at it just right, it was just drops of sweat cascading down the twelve year olds face. In those minutes that they lay there, still connected and still _together, _a million thoughts escaped their minds and fell into an empty black hole.

There was no light.

There was no sound.

There was nothing.

There was numbness.

And there was pain.

With a sigh that sounded regretful, Skip pulled out of the still quiet boy, frowning when he realized the sheets below were stained red. He was stained red. They were both stained red.

_Gross, _was all he thought.

Without being told to, because perhaps he already knew what was going to be asked of him, Peter got up; tenderly, achingly, quietly. Silently. He slithered off the bed, almost falling to his knees, before he stood once again, obeying the touch that led him to the bathroom where he had stripped his innocence and normalcy unknowingly. His clothes, the ones he loved and the ones he so desperately wished he could dawn once again, were left in a pile next to the rusty toilet, heaped together in a damp mountain of longing and regret and hollowness.

The shower was cold, but he was sure the water must've been warm as the steam rose and covered the bathroom mirror. The soap Skip lathered him in felt like the goo he'd been disgraced in minutes ago, the unscented chill of it traveling and running down his body leaving unwanted goosebumps as the bubbles became tinted pink. The water ran down both of their bodies, and though they were so close, it felt as if they were universes apart. Peter could feel hands in his hair, and even though they weren't tugging so painfully, yanking him back to get _closer, _he could still feel the tremors that shook his fingers.

The world was a blurry mess of flesh colored skin, pink water, and a darkness that pulled and latched onto his soul. It felt heavy, as if a weight had been chained to his heart and was dragging him down, down, down.

The water turned off, a towel was thrown onto him, and Peter was left in the humid room, the door opening to let in the chill of the rest of the sad apartment.

Getting dressed was hard. His legs shook with each attempt it took to put his underwear on, the boxers shaking in his grasp as he tried again and again to put them on. Sitting was agony, the fire that had been lit in his lower back side driving him nearly to tears. There was no choice but to stand, and Peter tried desperately not to look at the red smear he'd left behind on the toilet seat. It felt almost _wrong _to have the rough texture of cotton against his skin, the dampness of it contrasting so strikingly with the lacy outfit Skip had given that had been ripped off his-

His baggy shirt clung to the wet hair strands that hung limply on the sides of his head, the moisture trickling down his neck and pooling into the collar. The world was still blurry and he realized his faithful glasses were no longer resting comforting against the bride of his nose.

A distant part of his mind prayed they hadn't been broken during the game- glasses were expensive and Aunt May and Uncle Ben would be furious if he came home with cracked lenses and bent frames. Money was important, and he knew that and he couldn't make them mad because then things would go back to the way things were years back with loud shouting and stone cold silences and slamming doors and tired sighs and aching heads and _he couldn't let them know or they'd be mad and they wouldn't love him anymore._

"Skip?" his voice was weak, barely a whisper. Feet unsteady and legs throbbing, they took him out of the slick bathroom and out onto the cold wooden floors of the hallway.

The teens bedroom light was still on, so Skip must be in there, but Peter so desperately did not wish to enter. So, he stood a foot away from the open door and knocked quietly on the frame. Hidden from view, and thus no longer having the advantage of sight into the bedroom, Peter waited for a response but found none.

Having no other choice but to use his voice, Peter weakly called, "Skip? Are-Are my glasses in there?"

There was shuffling, something soft being thrown, before the bleach blonde teen himself appeared, holding out a pair of _perfectly fine _glasses. No cracks in the lenses. No bent frames. No crooked nose pieces.

No telling Aunt May and Uncle Ben.

"Here, Einstein," Skip said, placing the key to his sight on his face. "Kept them on my desk in case they fell off and broke during our game."

"Y-Yeah," the boy whispered, eyes going to the ground.

Another small part of his mind had screamed and begged for his glasses to have been broken. Demolished. Irreparable. Gone.

But they weren't.

And that meant there was no reason to say anything.

* * *

Months later, Peter would learn about the word rape. Shortly after, Peter would learn that he had been a victim of the word. That he had been sexually abused, harassed, assaulted, and violently taken advantage of by a pedophile.

That twelve year old Peter Benjamin Parker, who had thought he was no longer a child and was grown up, was raped by his best friend.

When he learned about the r-word, it hadn't struck him that he might've been used in _that way. _It had just been a game; a game he didn't like, sure, but he never said no. He never said the word he was supposed to say to "qualify" it as rape. Yeah, the first time he tried to get away, but every other time, every other time they played that _game_, he had sat still and taken it. Even tried to have "fun" like Skip asked him to.

So, yeah. He didn't think he had been taken advantage of.

His therapist told him that he should start using the r-word, or at least start saying it. That, yes, he had been sexually assaulted and abused, but he was also _raped. _The therapist said something about using the word and helping him get past the trauma of it if he started to accept the fact that his first and only friend had destroyed his soul and sucked out all the innocence inside of his small body. Easy.

My best friend raped me. My best friend was a pedophile. Skip Westcott raped me when I was twelve and he was seventeen. Skip Westcott was a pedophile.

Skip Westcott was my best and only friend.

Peter hadn't planned on telling anyone. Skip had told him to keep it a secret, just like the best friend outfit (he still hadn't told anyone about that; he was good at keeping secrets, he was). He'd been careless one night though. He'd left his boxers laying on the ground after coming home from another game. Aunt May found them and screamed for him to tell her why there was blood all over his underwear. Why there was a pile of his boxers shoved to the back of his closet stained brown and red. Why he hadn't told anyone.

He tried to explain; Skip was his friend, he'd never hurt him. Skip was a good friend and sometimes he got a little rough when they played their game and it wasn't his fault because Peter just didn't know how to relax and enjoy the game and take it like a good boy and that _it wasn't Skip's fault._

Aunt May had cried all night whilst she held her nephew, phoning Uncle Ben shortly after Peter's confession. Uncle Ben had been livid. Peter could hear him yelling bad words into the phone as May asked him to call the police and report a case of pedophilic _rape._

Peter had been raped. Their nephew had been raped more than once, several times, by someone they trusted and held dear to their hearts.

And he hadn't told anyone.

Peter didn't bother asking what had happened to his friend. If he was ever prosecuted or if there was enough evidence to send him to prison. He never saw Steven Westcott again; and even though he had done bad things to Peter, even though it was months of grooming and sexual harassment he wasn't aware of, even though he still heard his aunt and uncle cry in the middle of the night when they thought he had gone to sleep, Peter thought he missed him.

His therapist told him that wasn't true. No, he doesn't miss Steven (he wasn't allowed to call him Skip anymore because it was how they both distanced themselves from the situation; don't distance yourself Peter it makes it worse). Peter Parker misses the attention and "love" he thought he was receiving. He misses the fun games they played. He misses being told that he was smart and that he was practically a mini Einstein (he hated that name now, he hated that scientist, he hated being smart, why did he have to be like that, he hated Einstein). He misses having someone to talk to and play with.

Peter Parker misses having a friend. Not Steven Westcott.

In a sense, what his therapist told him was true. He did miss having a friend.

At the same time though, he missed himself. He missed the Peter Parker he was before the day Skip (no, his name is _Steven_) took him to his apartment with the hookers that stood on the corner. He missed the Peter Parker he was before he was given the best friend outfit that had been so nice and comfy to wear at first (before it became stained and ripped to shreds with his ra-). He missed the Peter Parker he was before his asthma attack that made Steven want to go the bathroom so badly. He missed the eleven year old Peter Benjamin Parker he was before he ever met seventeen year old Steven "Skip" Westcott.

That Peter had died that day. It was a slow, painful, and tedious death.

And it was only in the aftermath of the ordeal, only when he had started to "recover" (there is no recovery, not for him; he will never recover), did Peter realize a part of him was gone.

The innocent part of himself, that he knew he loved even if it was hard to admit, had disappeared forever. Every loving touch or hug he received was no longer just a loving touch. It was a rough hand wanting to keep him still. Every whispered or soft words of "I love you" was not a declaration of fondness for him. It was the heavy and heated words of a teenager reaching his climax. Every hot shower was not the comfort of relaxing after a long day. It was the cleansing away of sins as cold goo rolled down his legs and tainted the water pink.

Peter Parker's innocence had died.

Peter Parker himself had died and withered away into a black shriveled mess.

It was sad that he'd have to die again only a few short years later.


End file.
